


The Tuning Of Violins

by commoncomitatus



Category: The New Legends of Monkey (TV)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Music
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-11
Updated: 2019-03-11
Packaged: 2019-11-15 12:45:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18073649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/commoncomitatus/pseuds/commoncomitatus
Summary: Early(ish) S1. Wherein Pigsy learns more about his new friends through song than he ever could through conversation.





	1. Chorus

**Author's Note:**

> A brief musical interlude while I brace myself to edit 250k of angst. Inspired by Pigsy's surprisingly specific knowledge of the others' singing talents (or lack thereof) in 1x09.

***

Pigsy has always worked best when he’s harmonising.

He’s not a soloist. This, he’s known almost as long as he can remember. Big or small, it doesn’t really matter, but he’s only ever comfortable when he’s part of a group. When it’s just him, alone, his rocky voice bouncing off the walls, he loses his rhythm. A little too sharp, a little too loud, and when he hits a bum note — as he so often does — there’s no-one there to pick him up and pick up the slack. There’s nothing more dangerous, he’s learned over the years, than being the only voice in a room. No distractions, no other bodies to hide behind, no stronger voices to drown him out.

Nothing to cover up the fact that he’s not actually that great.

Which isn’t to say he’s _bad_. Not compared to some, at least. He can hold a decent tune, most of the time, and he’s survived this far without being put into the ground. It’s just... well, voices like his have a tendency to go flat, as often as not. And without a decent chorus harmonising beside him, those sour notes can lead to a whole bloody mess of trouble.

It’s been the driving force for too much of his life, if he’s honest. He’s not afraid, at least not exactly, but he’s acutely aware of his own limitations. He’s seen what it takes to survive in the world as it is, and he knows perfectly well he’ll never have the stamina to endure what others of his kind have. His kind of survival — the kind that _isn’t_ — catches a very different rhythm, but he’s worked damn hard to make it fit with his voice.

Truth be told, he wasn’t expecting his newest little group to be so understanding.

Resistance. Judgement. Suspicion. That’s what he expected, and who would blame them for it? Two gods and a human, and not one among them who doesn’t have a damn good reason to hate him. But here they are, cautious but accepting, letting him tag along on their quixotic little quest, letting him add his harmonies, off-key and pitchy though they are, to theirs. Giving him a chance, even, to prove he’s worth more than the dirt he’s been crawling in.

He doesn’t need their sideways glances to know how generous that is.

So, then. Here he is, at the back of a brand new chorus, keeping his voice down and trying to catch a different sort of rhythm. Out of his comfort zone by a few thousand leagues, no doubt about it, but there’s something about this tone-deaf little group that just sounds _right_. 

Harmony, pure and true, of a kind he hasn’t heard in a very long time. For all the differences between them, all the countless reasons they have not to trust him, all the countless reasons he has not to feel at home with them either... still, somehow, he does.

At least, he would, if he were the sentimental sort.

Luckily for everyone, though, he’s not.

He’ll leave that to the rest of them, the sickly-sweet schmoop, and stick to being the same thing he’s always been: a lazy good-for-nothing with a half-decent baritone and a broad pair of shoulders. A washed-up mess of a god who knows when to keep his own mouth shut and let other voices ring out instead. A nobody, at the end of the day.

But a nobody who has learned how to listen to the notes, and the spaces between.

**


	2. Anthem

**

Lesson One:

The Monkey King — the myth, the legend, the hero — is not nearly as tough as he pretends to be.

And he is decidedly _not_ okay with that.

He’s an arrogant so-and-so, Monkey, all puffed up on his own self-importance, the kind of god who’s been told a few too many times that he’s the best of the best, the kind who’s been raised from birth to believe his own hype. Pigsy has met more than a few of his sort before, lazy braggarts with too much natural talent and not enough modesty to rein it in. They don’t have to work, and so they don’t bother.

Not that he’s in any position to judge. After all, he’s the talentless hack who _does_ have to work and still found a way to get out of it.

Well, for a few centuries, anyway. It’s probably a blessing that it didn’t stick, for his morality if not quite his stamina, but still...

Still, he turned it around, didn’t he? And now he’s working harder than he’s ever had to work in his life. With the sweat trickling between his shoulderblades and his breath like a razor in his chest, he can’t help thinking he could be forgiven for not taking too kindly to Monkey’s self-important swagger.

“I don’t know what you’re complaining about,” he breezes one morning, his voice a pitchy sort of sing-song that makes Pigsy want to cut out his tongue. “We’ve barely been on the road two hours.”

Exhausted and soaked in sweat, and in no mood for Monkey’s particular breed of superiority, Pigsy only glares.

“ _Three_ ,” he counters sourly. “And every second of it was uphill. With the wind in our faces.”

“Doesn’t even count as a warm-up,” Monkey retorts. Then, still preening and without skipping a beat, he turns to their human leader. “Right, Tripitaka?”

Tripitaka, ever the one to play peacekeeper, clears his throat. He’s only a little breathless, much to Pigsy’s disappointment, and that says a whole lot more than his answer.

“I mean...” He looks uncomfortable, like he doesn’t want to choose sides but knows he has to; even in this, the most trivial dispute, the little human is a monk through and through. “It’s not _that_ bad.”

Feeling utterly betrayed, Pigsy turns to the last member of their little chorus. “Sandy?”

She’s gazing up at the sky, head tilted to one side, eyes glazed over like a daydreamer, and it’s only after he’s said her name for the third time that she seems to realise they’re even speaking. She blinks, shakes herself out of whatever weird little thought has taken hold of her, and casually drifts back down to earth.

“Did you need something?”

Pigsy sighs. “A second opinion,” he says, sounding rather more patient than he actually is, “from someone with the tiniest bit of common sense.”

Monkey guffaws at that. “ _Her_?”

Pigsy can hardly blame him for his derision, but he won’t be deterred now. “All this bloody walking,” he presses. “Hard work or not?”

Sandy considers this for nearly a full minute.

Then, at long last, she says, “It’s going to rain.”

Pigsy drops his head into his hands.

“That’s not what I...” Oh, but what’s the bloody point? “You know what, never mind. You’ve been a great help, thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Sandy says, with absolute seriousness, and promptly goes back to staring at the sky.

Monkey chokes on his laughter.

If he had any strength left in his aching arms, Pigsy would throttle them both.

*

To (almost) everyone’s annoyance, it does rain.

Hard and relentless, the kind of rain that soaks them all to the skin in a matter of minutes. It’s bad enough that, despite Monkey’s protestations and Sandy’s waterlogged glee, they have no choice but to seek shelter.

They find it in a dank, miserable little cave. It’s far from ideal, but by this point — exhausted and irritable and now drenched down to his bones — Pigsy is just grateful for the excuse to to catch his breath.

Monkey, rather predictably, throws a tantrum.

“Do I look like I want to spend any _more_ of my life stuck in a rock?” he rants, to anyone who will listen.

Tripitaka, being the most empathetic, pats his arm.

“It’s only until the rain dies down,” he soothes, with far more patience than Pigsy would have shown.

Peering out into the sheeting rain, Sandy says, “Four hours, six minutes, nine seconds. Give or take.” Then, beaming like a little kid on her birthday, “I’ll go and stand watch outside.”

It’s much quieter once she’s gone. And rather more sane. Not that any of them are cruel enough to say so.

Taking charge, Tripitaka rummages through their things, trying to find a means of starting a fire. Pigsy watches, cooling the sweat on his back against the cave wall, and tries to figure out the most tactful way of telling the poor monk he’d be better off asking Monkey to use his unique talents to turn the place into a furnace. The downside, he supposes, of leaving the packing to the one person who never had to prepare for anything in his bloody life.

Monkey, meanwhile, skulks moodily to the back of the cave, muttering something about using the time to ‘practice’.

Exactly what the great and powerful Monkey King needs to practice, Pigsy has no idea, but he’s happy to leave him to it.

*

Well. For a little while, at least.

Peace and quiet, from Pigsy’s extensive experience, are limited things, and this time is no exception. There’s not much in the way of privacy in a cold dank cave, and he can only watch for so long as Tripitaka tries and fails to make fire with the power of prayer and positive thinking. In less than half an hour, he’s past the point of amusement and well into ‘rethinking his life choices’ territory.

He’d sooner bash his head against the wall than step outside and listen to Sandy talking at the weather, so checking up on Monkey is pretty much the last bastion of hope for his fraying sanity. Not his first choice, certainly, but needs must when the alternatives are utterly useless.

He finds him at the very end of the cave, as far back as it will go. Still not completely private, but about as secluded as anyone can hope for in such a small cramped space.

It’s hard to tell what exactly he’s trying to do back there, but he’s definitely trying to do something. Eyes closed, perfectly still, his staff held out in front of him like a divining rod, his whole body is a picture of absolute stillness and concentration. if Pigsy didn’t know better, he’d suspect the great Monkey King was _meditating_.

Not bloody likely, that. Not from him.

Still, that’s what it looks like. And if Pigsy has learned one thing about the world in his countless years of living in it, it’s that only an idiot would risk interrupting a sullen, moody super-god when he’s meditating.

So, sensibly, he stays back. Watches without speaking, and pays attention. It’s the one talent he’s kept with him, the one gift he never seems to lose; there’s not much a washed-up side-switcher has going for him, but he’s gotten pretty damn good at paying attention.

And listening.

And, by extension, _hearing_.

When he first catches it, the off-key under-the-breath humming, he naturally assumes it’s a fly or a bee, some annoying airborne critter seeking shelter from the storm. That’s what it sounds like, a pitchy, mostly-irritating buzz that just won’t stop.

Brains, apparently, are still a department he’s lacking.

It’s a few long minutes before his common sense catches up with his ears and figures out the truth: that the irritating mess of tuneless chaos is actually coming from _Monkey_.

He tries to hide his splutters as best he can — no easy task, given that the sound is hilariously bad — but it’s not enough; apparently he’s not the only sharp-eared, keen-eyed god in the cave, because Monkey’s eyes are open in less than a heartbeat, and his nostrils are flaring a warning.

“What part of ‘privacy’ didn’t you understand?”

“Sorry.” He doesn’t even pretend to be sincere. Payback, he thinks, for Monkey’s earlier arrogance. “It’s just... I thought you were _dying_. What the bloody hell was that noise?”

He probably deserves the glare he gets for that. And he doesn’t regret it for an instant.

Honestly, he halfway expects Monkey to ignore him completely. Wouldn’t blame him, either, if he just turned around and went right back to what he was doing without another word. Pigsy isn’t exactly known for his tact or his subtlety, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that whatever Monkey’s been doing back here — out-of-tune or otherwise — it clearly means a great deal to him.

It’s something of a surprise, then, when he actually stops, turns around, and looks him in the eye.

No less dramatic, of course, but hey, small steps.

He shrinks his staff with a flourish, sighs like the world is ending, and, without breaking eye-contact, mutters, “If you _must_ know, it helps me to focus.”

Pigsy blinks. He’s not sure what throws him more: the explanation, or the fact that Monkey’s willing to give it in the first place.

“That racket?” Too stunned to school himself, apparently, he blurts it out without thinking. “Focus? Seriously?”

“Did I ask for your opinion?”

For a moment or two, he looks like an angry cat, his shoulders hunching and his hair standing on end. It’s not a flattering look, but it’s a bloody amusing one. Pigsy is about half a second away from an ill-advised chuckle when the moment sputters out, the look and the rage fizzling and dying like water thrown onto a fire. Monkey would never allow himself to look truly vulnerable, but the look on his face without all that seething wrath is as close to it as Pigsy’s ever seen.

He clears his throat, feeling a little ashamed. “Uh. Sorry.”

Monkey glowers, but there’s no heat in it now, and after a few futile moments he sighs and says, “It’s _complicated_ , okay?”

That much is pretty damn obvious. Still, Pigsy takes a deep breath and puts on his best hey-I’m-not-judging-you face. It’s been a fair few decades since he last had to to use it, though, and he’s sort of rusty; rather than comforting, he suspects it just makes him look deranged.

“You, uh...” He coughs, suddenly awkward; for all his powers of observations, in some things he is so far out of his depth it’s laughable. “You want to talk about it?”

Monkey’s eyes go saucer-wide, and he chokes.

“No!” Then, slow and cautious, “Why, do _you_ want to talk about it?”

Again, Pigsy is reduced to hapless blinking. “Uh... sure?”

For some unfathomable reason, that actually seems to help.

A little, anyway. Monkey is still pouting like a tiger with a thorn in its paw, but it’s a little less vulnerable now, a little closer to the moody arrogance they’re both used to. Whatever it is that has him feeling so self-conscious and defensive, apparently it’s easier for him to deal with when he can pretend he’s doing someone else a favour.

Fair enough. Pigsy knows a thing or two about denial himself.

He keeps his distance, watching without judgement as Monkey paces back and forth, throwing hollow, half-hearted punches at his own shadow, visibly trying to psych himself up to talk about his issues. The frustration is a tangible, physical thing, pouring off him in waves, and there’s not much Pigsy can do but hold on, stay out of reach, and wait for him to wear himself out a little.

It’s not a long wait. After a couple of broody swings, Monkey throws up his hands sits himself down on the cold floor and blurts out, “It’s just... not the way it used to be. You know?”

Not really, no. Pigsy might know a thing or two about change and the passage of time, but he’s as adaptable as a bloody cockroach when he wants to be.

He keeps that to himself, though, and summons an understanding sort of smile.

“Sure,” he says. “Five hundred years in a rock’ll do that to you.”

Monkey ignores him. Fair enough; it wasn’t exactly his best shot at compassion.

“I used to be _powerful_ ,” he gripes instead, wringing his hands like he really believes ‘used to’ is the right phrase here, like he’s not spent the last week and a half bragging about how powerful he still is, and how much better than the rest of them. “Do you have any idea, the things I could do?”

“Some, yeah.” He can’t help himself; he rolls his eyes. “I mean, you’ve not shut up about it, so...”

It’s not exactly helpful, but Monkey just shrugs and nods, like he wasn’t being insulted at all. Weird, but Pigsy’s happy to roll with it. Especially if it means less glaring.

“I could do _anything_ ,” Monkey whines. “I mean, seriously. _Anything_. But now...” He wrings his hands again, cuts a quick glance at Pigsy like he’s sizing up their respective talents. Not exactly flattering, Pigsy suspects, and fights the urge to duck his head. “Now it’s like... I don’t know, like half of me is still asleep. Half my powers are just... gone. Or, uh, hiding. I don’t know. They’re there, but they’re not... _there_.”

He gestures vaguely, like he knows he can’t really explain it but doesn’t know what else to do. Pigsy tries to be sympathetic, he really does — there’s nothing worse than feeling helpless, especially when it’s your own body betraying you — but instead of some well-intentioned but clumsy advice, what comes out is:

“Performance anxiety?”

Monkey _glares_. Then, to Pigsy’s astonishment, he laughs. 

“Sure,” he snorts, shaking his head. “Why not?”

Pigsy wills his expression to stay soft and not snarky. “Happens to the best of us, mate.”

Blessedly, Monkey does not follow up on that. Too busy thinking about his own troubles, as per usual. For once, Pigsy finds he doesn’t mind when he starts ranting again.

“I’ve been trying to... I don’t know... meditate them into coming back. Like the Master always tried to teach me. Stupid, right?” He doesn’t wait for a reply. “I always thought it was. But he loved that sort of stuff. All that focus-and-concentrate, find-your-centre, blah blah blah. Whatever. He thought it’d solve every problem in the world. More meditation, more focus, more blah-blah-blah.”

Pigsy grunts. He knows of the Master, of course, though he never met him personally. No reason, really, for the elite of Jade Mountain to waste their time on the likes of him. “Sounds... spiritual.”

“Right?” He shows his teeth, still unhappy but grateful for a place to vent it. “He kept trying to talk me into doing it too. Take everything slow and steady, try to ‘feel’ the power or whatever. Always seemed like a waste of time, you know? Why would I bother with all that when I could just...”

He waves a hand. Power thrums briefly beneath his skin, a hammering staccato drumbeat that even Pigsy can here, then it vanishes, blinking out into nothing like a fading echo.

Pigsy raises a brow. Smart enough to keep his opinions to himself this time, he only says, “I see what you mean.”

“Yeah.” Monkey grunts. His frustration seethes. “He used to sing that song over and over when he needed to concentrate. Some old-world anthem from back when the gods had kings. I think he liked to use it as a reminder of how far we’d come since then. Or something.” He gestures vaguely. “I don’t know, he was really into all that metaphorical stuff.”

“Sounds like he’d be a blast at parties,” Pigsy deadpans.

Monkey doesn’t laugh this time. No surprises, there; it doesn’t take a genius to know that his old teacher is still a sore spot, and a rough one.

“Never made any sense to me back then,” he goes on quietly. “But now...”

He gestures again, waves a useless hand. Doesn’t finish the thought, but he doesn’t need to. Pigsy might be the first to make light of Monkey’s histrionics, but this he can tell runs deeper. This isn’t for making jokes about. This, he _gets_.

“Makes you feel closer to him,” he says, low and with uncharacteristic gentleness. “Even if it doesn’t really help you to ‘focus’.”

“Something like that.” He growls under his breath, suddenly embarrassed. “I know, I know. I told you it was stupid.”

It’s not. Not at all. But Pigsy knows better than to say something so sentimental.

Instead, smirking only as much as he knows he’ll get away with, he quips, “No worse than any other rubbish you come out with.”

Another day, that might get him face-to-face with Monkey’s staff. Today, not so much. Mournful or just plain nostalgic, it’s hard to say, but he barely even bothers to roll his eyes.

“Don’t mention this to the others,” he mutters sourly. “Especially Tripitaka. He already thinks I’m...”

He trails off, shaking his head and looking vulnerable again. Pigsy feels his face twitch; he can’t figure out whether he wants to laugh or pat the poor self-pitying bastard on the shoulder. It’s a very particular kind of self-obsession, he muses, that deludes himself into thinking the whole world is waiting to fall at his feet but still can’t see the one person who actually _is_.

“The monk thinks you’re the second coming of the gods,” he points out, his tone making it quite clear what he thinks of that. “Trust me, he’s not going to care if you can’t get your staff to—”

“Hey!”

He’s grinning a little now, though. Pigsy quirks his brows, satisfied that he’s defused most of the sulking, then swiftly sobers.

“Look,” he says, cautious but hopeful. “Why don’t you let me lend a hand? With the meditation stuff, I mean. Because seriously? If that off-key caterwauling is all you’ve got, you’re never going to find your focus.”

Monkey raises one brow, then the other. Quite the talent, that, though Pigsy doubts he’ll thank him for pointing it out.

“ _You_?” He’s sort of gritting his teeth as he says it, like it causes him physical pain to even think of accepting help from a lesser god. “How, exactly, can _you_ do better?”

Pigsy snorts, unoffended. He knows deflection when he sees it, and he’s been scapegoated for far worse.

“I can carry a tune, you know,” he says, keeping his voice even. “That song of yours deserves a real set of lungs to do it justice. Not whatever the bloody hell you’ve got stuck in your throat.”

Monkey glares, scathing but not really heated. “I’m out of practice.”

“Yeah, yeah, so you keep saying. How long are you planning to keep using that excuse?” He clears his throat before Monkey can take offence, then hastily presses on, “I’m just saying, maybe I’m a bit better suited to this particular, ah, talent?”

“I _seriously_ doubt it.”

Pigsy can’t help himself; he laughs.

“Monkey, the bloody rain has better rhythm than you.”

“That’s not...” He folds his arms, scowling like a petulant teenager. “Whatever. You can’t save the world with music, anyway, so who cares?”

“Your Master did, apparently.” That hits home. He expects another death-glare; instead, all he gets is sorrow. If he were a slightly better man, he might almost feel sorry for the poor arrogant so-and-so. “Look. Just give me a shot, yeah?”

Dubious but not completely dismissive, Monkey shrugs. He glances around, squinting through the murky gloom like he has to reassure himself they’re well and truly hidden from prying human eyes. Then, when he’s absolutely convinced the coast is clear, he heaves an overblown, melodramatic sigh and climbs to his feet.

“Fine,” he huffs. “But if you get the words wrong, we’re done.”

*

Pigsy does not get the words wrong.

He’ll be the first to admit that his talent pool is pretty damn limited, but with the world the way it is even the most half-assed halfwit has to scrounge a few skills here and there. Point of necessity, really, and the low-level high-life he carved out for himself. He’s attentive, and a damn quick study — he wouldn’t have lived even half as long as he has if he wasn’t — and he puts that skill to good use now.

Monkey doesn’t come out and admit he’s impressed by how quickly he learns, but Pigsy can tell he is. He wonders, though he’s savvy enough not to ask, how long it took the great Monkey King to learn all the words. A tad more than one ear-splitting rendition from a tone-deaf god, he’d wager, and cheerfully takes it as a victory.

He does a passable job of the singing part too, if the look on Monkey’s face is anything to go by. Maybe not up to the level of his precious Master, but hero-worship does a lot to sweeten even the sourest notes; Pigsy’s learned that one a few times himself, and more by experience than observation.

Still, the grudging respect is a much-needed feather for his cap, and if it means something a little deeper that to a washed-up has-been like himself... well, Monkey’s ego, already swollen, doesn’t need to know.

In any case, it seems to do the job. Though he’ll never admit it out loud, Monkey finds a new depth of focus without the distraction of his own bum notes, and when he whips out his staff to begin his meditation anew, it’s with a steadiness and calm he was sorely lacking before.

It’s not enough to fix all of his problems — Pigsy suspects it’ll take more than a little meditation and a little music to get past whatever inner blocks his imprisonment left behind — but it definitely seems to help him find _something_. A quiet kind of inner peace, possibly, or else a memory of how the song is meant to sound, sung by someone who knows a sharp from a flat, who has a little vocal control to throw behind the power notes.

Whatever it is — and Pigsy would never dare to suggest it’s _him_ — the effect on his mood is palpable.

He’s still sulking and scowling, of course, when the session ends with no more of his powers resurfacing, but his shoulders have the loose, unburdened slouch of someone who, for the first time in far too long, didn’t have to deal with it all by himself.

Pigsy doesn’t expect a ‘thank you’ for that, and he doesn’t get one.

What he does get is Monkey rolling his eyes as he shrinks his staff and slides it back into his perfect hair, and a grudging, grumbled, “I mean, it’s not like you’re actually _good_...”

Pigsy chuckles, taking it as the thinly-veiled compliment they both know it is: ‘and, okay, so maybe you’re not _bad_ either’.

“Never said I was,” he retorts coolly. “Just said I was better than _you_.”

Monkey, predictably, doesn’t dignify that with a response. If looks could kill, Pigsy is pretty sure he’d be croaking his last note right about now.

But it’s not the same. Softer, a little less belligerent, and when Monkey turns around and skulks back to rejoin Tripitaka at the mouth of the cave, he’s not nearly so agitated as he was when he left. Still moody — that’s not likely to go anywhere any time soon — and still as petulant as a prince on his parents’ throne, but at least he doesn’t look ready to start punching the nearest inanimate object that looks at him funny.

It may not be much of a win, but it’ll do for now.

*

They repeat the process a few times over the next few weeks.

It doesn’t really help with what it’s supposed to — specifically, it doesn’t get Monkey any closer to summoning his cloud or re-learning his transformations or generally becoming less of a puffed-up ego trip — but Pigsy learns a few more of the Master’s favourite songs, and a few things about Monkey too.

Example: that the swagger and strutting is all bravado, covering up the part of him that is deeply terrified he’s going to be stuck this way, a half-god with only half his powers.

It’s a little bit embarrassing, to tell the truth, that it takes him so long to figure that part out. Monkey’s a pretty compelling actor, though, and Pigsy is at least mostly convinced he has the others hoodwinked into believing his bluster. He acts like he knows what he’s doing all the time, like he’s in complete control of whatever dire situation the world throws at them, and it’s kind of difficult to argue with that when the results always seem to swing in his favour.

It doesn’t help, either, that he’s a bloody expert in making those results look like something he’d planned all along and not just the product of impossibly good luck.

Tripitaka is much too gullible for his own good, Pigsy thinks, that he believes it every time. And Sandy is too spaced-out most of the time to care one way or another.

Besides, and rather more importantly, neither of them ever get to see him _fail_. Not like Pigsy does, watching him struggle again and again to summon a cloud that will not come or twist his body into a shape it’s all but forgotten. Neither of them get to see him lose his cool when he fails one too many time, and neither of them have seen the way a line from one of the Master’s favourite songs will soothe that savagery until he’s calm.

That’s the thing about Monkey: he doesn’t mind screwing up — he’s been around long enough to know that’s just a part of what they do — but what drives him to distraction is the idea that someone might _see_. He’s got the ridiculous notion in his head that he needs to appear completely flawless at all times to everyone within a thousand leagues, or else he’ll be sealed back in that bloody mountain for another five hundred years.

It’s ridiculous, obviously. Understandable, sure, but ridiculous.

Then again, that’s the way of over-achievers: they start to think they live and die by what they do, that their accomplishments or their shortcomings are all they have and all they are.

Pigsy learns to help temper that a little bit, in his not-so-quiet way. He learns to let his voice drop a little during the moments when Monkey’s temper flares up, when his frustration overrides his focus and threatens to ruin more than just the moment. He learns to make his voice pitch sharp or flat, learns to sound as horrible as Monkey does on the rare occasion he tries to join in. He learns, bit by bit, to redirect attention from Monkey’s moments of failure to his own.

Monkey, the self-obsessed so-and-so that he is, does not notice.

“You’re not as good as you think you are,” he huffs one day. They’ve been working hard, and he’s especially irritable at having nothing to show for it. Naturally, that frustration gets turned onto Pigsy; he’s long since gotten used to it. “I don’t know why I keep you around if you’re going to keep screwing it up and distracting me.”

Pigsy merely shrugs. He’s figured out that it’s not really about blame, or even about frustration. He learns and he keeps those lessons close to his chest, but he’s known for a while now what it is that Monkey really needs from him: a place to shove his helplessness.

He doesn’t have much to offer this little group, to be sure — a mediocre singing voice and some half-decent cooking skills; he’s barely more useful than their talentless human, most of the time— but this he can offer without a thought. He’s spent centuries playing the comic relief, the scapegoat, the punching bag. A lifetime of perfecting the smile, the shrug, the carelessness; what’s one more oversized ego to someone who’s already carried so many?

So he lets it happen. Lets his voice crack at exactly the wrong — _right_ — moment, lets Monkey blow off some steam by yelling at him about it, lets the little tantrum help him to forget for a moment the real reason he’s upset. There’s nothing to be done about his flagging powers except wait it out and work through it as best he — _they_ — can. Pigsy is more than happy to be a vent for all that impotent frustration while Monkey figures it — _himself_ — out.

He just hopes they don’t run out of songs before that happens.

**


	3. Lullaby

**

Lesson Two:

Sandy — their resident half-mad water nymph — is perhaps the most human of them all.

That one’s a bit of a puzzler, to be honest, and it takes more time than he’d care to admit to figure it out.

He knows her type in general, in the safe-distance sort of way of someone who hasn’t been forced to live that life in longer than either of them can remember. And he knows her, specifically, from all the times they’ve clashed over the years, she on the side of good and right, and he on the side of... well, Locke and everything she stood for. He’s not proud of it, but it was what it was.

Sandy lived a very different life to the one he did; where he slept on feather pillows she slept in the dark and the dirt, alone. The life she lived was carved out for her by pain and fear and hate; Pigsy may not know how it feels, but he knows well enough the kind of wild creatures that are forged in that kind of fire. He’s seen the gaps in her head, the little and not-so-little holes where coherent thought spills out, and he knows — a little more intimately than he’d care to admit — exactly where they came from.

It’s enough to make anyone feel a little guilty. And for someone like _him_...

Yeah.

If he’s honest — really, truly honest, the kind of honesty that would gnaw great gaping wounds in his conscience if he still had one — he spends a pretty hefty amount of his time and energy trying to avoid her.

He knows what she’s done, what she’s had to do to stay alive.

Rather more importantly, though, _she_ knows what _he’s_ done.

He’s changed a lot since he joined up with Tripitaka’s little band of tone-deaf do-gooders. He’s worked hard to put his old life behind him, to turn his back on what he was and work to become something better. He’s come a pretty fair way, or so he flatters himself, but still not far enough to take the sort of long, hard look in the mirror he’d need to look Sandy in the eye.

So he doesn’t.

Lucky for him, she makes that particular task easy. She’s a quiet one, doesn’t talk much, only really responds to the world around her when someone talks to her first, and on the rare occasion when she does speak up it’s seldom anything anyone else understands. He wonders sometimes if she’s fully aware of where she is or how she got there, if there’s a cracked little part of her that doesn’t understand she’s not in the sewers any more.

He doesn’t ask. Doesn’t engage. Just lets her meander along through her mixed-up little world uninterrupted. Best for everyone, he thinks privately, but he doesn’t say so out loud.

Besides, she seems content to be left to herself. Seems to prefer it that way, even. A lifetime of solitude and isolation would make anyone wary of human contact, he supposes, and they’ve all noticed the way she flinches when Tripitaka tries to touch her, like her body doesn’t know how to react.

It’s a sad thing, no doubt about it, but what can you do? Pigsy has seen enough of their kind get sent off to far worse fates; a fear of contact and a touch of social anxiety are small prices to pay for being alive and in one piece.

Well, a _few_ pieces. A little fractured, a little broken, but good enough.

A damn sight better off than many of the poor gods he’s seen, at least.

And going by the haunted look on her face, he has a sneaking suspicion she knows it too.

*

Tripitaka, for reasons beyond anyone’s comprehension, finds her endearing.

Truth be told, it’s probably the only reason she’s even with them at all: the monk likes her.

Monkey, being rather less patient and far less tolerant overall, does _not_.

Specifically — at least, for today — he doesn’t like her tendency to wander off.

It’s mid-morning, and they’ve stopped near a particularly scenic shoreline, taking a break to catch their breath and get their bearings. If Monkey had his way, they would have been back on the road a good five or ten minutes ago. Never mind that they’ve barely been stopped that long in the first place, never mind that he’s the only one who isn’t still breathless; so far as he’s concerned any pause long enough to lace his boots is too damn long.

Sandy is as good a scapegoat as any for his impatient frothing, and all the more so because she’s not here to defend herself. Not that she would, Pigsy thinks sadly, even if she were; more likely, she wouldn’t even understand he was yelling at her in the first place.

She’s been gone a while, having meandered off almost as soon as they came to a stop, mumbling some nonsense about scouting the coast, and no-one’s caught a glimpse of her since. Pigsy wouldn’t think much of it most days, but Monkey’s temper is even more frayed than usual and that never bodes well. If he gets his hands on her before someone diffuses it, there will be blood.

His, most likely. Monkey’s not exactly known for being gentle, just as Sandy isn’t known for reacting like a normal person. He’d come at her from behind, grab her by the shoulders, and be face-down in the sand with her scythe at his throat before anyone knew what was happening.

So, being the well-intentioned, peacekeeping sort of fellow that he is, Pigsy rolls up his sleeves, clambers to his feet, and says, “If it’ll stop your bloody whining, I’ll go find her.”

Monkey glowers, characteristically ungrateful. “Drag her back by the neck if you have to. I’m done sitting around.”

“Right,” Pigsy retorts, deadpan. “I’ll be sure to do that, yeah. It’s not like I have any use for my arms or legs. Or my _head_.”

Monkey laughs, suddenly cheerful for the first time since they stopped.

“Glad we finally agree on something,” he smirks. “Now, off you go.”

Knowing better than to argue, Pigsy does as he’s told.

*

He finds her sitting on the beach.

Nothing new, there: sandy by name, sandy by nature. They’re all familiar by now with her affinity to water — even Monkey, who generally doesn’t waste more than half a thought on other people’s skill-sets — and it’s no secret that she gets viscerally uncomfortable when kept away from it for too long. They’ve been trekking their way through brush and shrubland for days now, so it’s hardly surprising that she might need some quiet time to recharge in a place like this.

What he doesn’t expect — what he would never have expected, not in a billion bloody years — is to find her _singing_.

He doesn’t recognise the sound at first. At least, he doesn’t recognise that it’s coming from _her_. No mistaking the soulful melody for what it is, but his mind bends in a hundred directions before he places it.

Can’t really be blamed for that, to be fair. It’s a decently large beach, and he’s heard enough tales about seductive sea spirits that it makes a sort of sense for his eyes and ears to scour the surf before the sand.

A few steps closer, though, and there’s no mistaking it.

She’s sat cross-legged at the point where the sea kisses the beach. Anyone else might find it uncomfortable, the salt and sand stuck to their wet clothes, but Sandy looks like she was born to live like this, halfway in and halfway out of the water. A creature of two worlds, she is, and between the sight of her sitting there and the sound of her voice — hers for sure now, no doubt about it — Pigsy almost finds himself a little bit entranced.

He shakes himself, tucks the thought away, and inches a little closer.

And realises, even more stunned, that she’s not alone.

At least, not _exactly_.

She’s found herself a makeshift audience, a colony of little crabs and crustaceans gathered around her feet like adoring fans. Pigsy gawks, astonished; he can’t quite tell whether they came of their own accord, drawn to her voice like a sort of siren’s song, or if she just gathered up the poor little things and arranged them there herself. Wouldn’t put either one of them past her, to be blunt, but either way it’s a strangely touching display.

So much that he’s almost loathe to disturb it.

Almost.

But then he thinks of Monkey, foaming at the mouth and baying for blood, and suddenly he’s a whole lot less enthralled.

He approaches slowly, for his own safety, taking great care to broadcast his presence. He’s seen too many times what happens to idiots stupid enough to sneak up on her unannounced. And now, occupied as she is as though in a trance, he doesn’t trust for a second that he’ll leave this place with his head attached if he doesn’t play it safe with her. She might be inching her way back towards normal, but she’s got a ways to go yet, and there’s too much of the feral beast still lurking inside of her to risk provocation in a private moment.

Besides, for all their differences, he respects her too much to intrude without permission. It’s just good manners, yeah?

Hesitating a few paces back, he clears his throat. “Hey.”

She doesn’t move. On the surface, she doesn’t react at all. He’d almost think she hasn’t heard him, but for the fact that her spine has gone impossibly straight.

Well, that and the fact that he knows perfectly well just how keen her senses are. She could hear a fly coming from two leagues away; there’s no chance she wouldn’t have heard the least subtle god in the world when he’s actually _trying_ to be noisy.

He coughs a little louder, tries again. “You know, you’ve got a pretty good voice under all that grit.”

It’s not flattery.

It’s really not. For someone who’s lived her whole life underground, no audience but the dark walls and darker water, her voice isn’t bad at all. Sort of melodic, or it could be with a few lessons. It’s much softer and a little bit higher than he would have expected from someone who speaks so roughly, but it knows as if by a sort of instinct what it’s capable of. It finds the notes it can reach and catches them like a net swallowing fish, lifting and dipping like a boat on water.

Oh, she’s no professional. She’s got a ragged sort of hoarseness that won’t be chased away, the razor rasp of a voice raised in isolation, and there’s something primal and primitive in her high notes that matches a little too neatly with the rest of her. But underneath all that wildness and inexperience there’s a sound as clear and pure as glass.

Sensing his scrutiny, she stops.

A bit of a shame, that.

The creatures at her feet scatter and disperse like dreamers waking up from a long sleep. Pigsy watches them go, touched by a sadness he can’t fully explain.

“Don’t stop on my account,” he says, recovering himself a bit too hastily. “Keep going, if you like. Or at least get to the end of the song. I’m sure Monkey can wait another minute or two.”

Probably not, but she doesn’t need to know that.

Not that it matters. She doesn’t keep going, and she doesn’t finish the song. Instead, she climbs to her feet, her movements unexpectedly graceful for someone so lanky and usually awkward. She still doesn’t look at him, even as she turns, and he can’t tell whether she’s upset about the intrusion or just characteristically shy. Either way, she keeps her head bowed low, her face shadowed by the tangle of her hair, features carefully hidden so he can’t make them out.

It’s no different than usual, the distance, but still something about it makes Pigsy feel uneasy. Like he’s stumbled into something sacred and defiled it somehow, crushed it all to pieces with his size and his presence. He wants to apologise, but he doesn’t really know what for, and even if he did he’s not sure he knows where to begin.

“Uh...” He swallows, tries a different tack. “Are you—”

She doesn’t wait to hear the rest of the question. “Yes.”

“Oh.” It’s awkward, and deeply uncomfortable. “Okay. Uh...”

Finally, excruciatingly slowly, she lifts her head to face him. Her expression is vacant, her eyes empty and a little unfocused, like she’s not really looking at him so much as _through_ him, like he’s a boulder blocking her view of the sea. A fair enough analogy, he supposes, and unconsciously steps to the side.

He wastes a moment or two trying to connect, trying to find some trace of _something_ behind her hollow eyes, and he’s just about to give up and go back to their makeshift camp when she sucks in her breath like a diver coming up for air. Desperate, thirsty, she breathes and breathes, and then, just as he’s about to ask if she’s all right, she shakes her head and blurts out—

“They were lonely.”

And before he has the chance to process that, she’s gone, blown away like the sand at his feet in a blur of blue mist.

*

She doesn’t mention it to the others.

It’s probably a smart move, all things considered. Monkey is a scowling, swearing, foot-stomping thundercloud when they get back, and Sandy is just observant enough to give him a wide berth. She mumbles a half-hearted apology for disappearing, then plants herself firmly at Tripitaka’s side, like she knows the monk is the only thing standing between her and the Monkey King’s wrath.

Apparently there are some brains rattling around in that head of hers, after all.

Tripitaka, being much more peaceable than Monkey, studies her for a beat or two, like he’s trying to figure out whether this is an issue worth pressing. Then, when he’s convinced it’s nothing to worry about, he shrugs and says, “Good to have you back.”

Sandy looks down at her boots. “Didn’t mean to be gone so long,” she says. “Had important matters to attend to.”

“ _Sure_ you did,” Monkey scoffs.

He doesn’t press it any further, though, and neither does Tripitaka. He just pats her back, smiles warmly, and says, “As long as you’re okay.”

“Of course.” She looks a little queasy, though, like it’s the last thing in the world she wants to hear, like the idea of someone else caring so much is physically painful. “Thank you, Tripitaka.”

Pigsy watches this exchange but keeps his mouth shut. They might be living back-to-back, the four of them, but that doesn’t mean they have to share every detail of their personal lives. If Sandy wants to spend her downtime singing her weird little heart out to lonely shellfish, that’s her prerogative, and if she wants to keep those moments to herself, then so be it. It’s no more his business than Monkey’s performance anxiety or what Tripitaka wears under his robes.

Easy enough, he thinks, to just shrug off the whole affair, stuff it into his pack like a pair of old socks, and never think of it again.

Right?

*

Apparently not.

He catches her at it a couple more times before he starts to think there might be something more to it. Turns around both times, and walks away, telling Monkey in no uncertain terms that she’ll be ready when she’s ready. Keeps it to himself and tries not to think too much about it.

 _Tries_.

But the harder he tries to not-think about it, the more he can’t seem to stop himself. And the more he thinks about it, the more he finds himself wondering if maybe the shellfish aren’t the only ones feeling lonely.

And the more he thinks about _that_...

Well.

So much for minding his own business.

Again, he’s a listener. It’s what he does. Can’t help himself, even when he’s made a promise to keep his nose out of it.

So, against his better judgement, the next time it happens, he sticks around and starts listening.

He’s a little more careful this time, though he’s not nearly so deluded as to think it makes a difference. Even at his most subtle, he’s still a mountain in human form, and he’s caught her at it enough times by now that she probably expected him before he even showed up. Hell, she’s probably waiting for him, at this point. That she even lets him catch her at all...

Well, it makes him wonder.

Then he hears the song, and he doesn’t have to.

Her voice is too quiet for the words to really carry, but he’s heard the song enough times in the taverns that they don’t need to. It’s practically a staple of the broken-hearted and down-on-their-luck, the poor miserable bastards willing to pay a pretty penny for a bard to help them drown their sorrows. It’s not _quite_ the saddest song they’ll pick, but it’s pretty high on the list. Lost love, lost fortune, lost everything; by the end of the second verse, the poor broken protagonist has nothing left but the clothes on his back.

It doesn’t take a genius to put the pieces together. Doesn’t take a genius to figure out what that empty, hollow look in her eyes really means. A little context, and suddenly the whole thing makes a painful amount of sense.

He doesn’t announce himself this time. She knows he’s there, he knows she knows, what would be the point? Done with formalities now, he simply strides up, sits himself down by her side, and listens. Like he’s earned the right to be there, like he’s just another one of her fish.

Predictable, if a little tragic, his presence cuts the moment off like a brick through a window. The last note of the song dies on her tongue, strangled and squashed flat. It’s a bit of a shame; whatever else he might say about her, she really does have a half-decent voice.

She doesn’t look at him, but she makes no move to stand either. Good enough, he thinks and dives in.

“You know,” he says, not waiting for a ‘hello’ he knows he’ll never get, “if I were a lonely cephalopod, I might want to hear something a little cheerier.”

Sandy stiffens. Her throat convulses.

“Didn’t ask your opinion,” she mutters, once she’s got herself back under control.

“I know.” He keeps his tone light, airy, tries in vain not to scare her away. “Just offering some friendly advice. You’ve got an impressive set of pipes on you.”

She blinks, like she doesn’t know what to do with that. “Untrue.”

“No, I’m serious. You’re pretty damn good for someone who never learned.” Her blush, as pale and wan as the rest of her, is more of a victory than he’ll ever let her see. He coughs, then waves a hand at her audience du jour. “I’m just saying, I bet they’d appreciate something with a bit of a lift to it.”

The blush vanishes, and she shrinks away like he just threatened to do something awful.

“No,” she says. “They wouldn’t.”

She’s hunching her shoulders now, glowering like a sullen, moody child. Well, Pigsy’s spent enough time dealing with Monkey over the past few weeks; he can handle a little petulance.

“Have you even tried?”

She hisses, and all of a sudden she’s as feral as he’s ever seen her.

“Go away.”

“I can do that, if you really want me to.” He takes a deep breath, not so much because he needs it as to warn her that he’s about to dip his toes into something a little bit heavier. “Just seems like maybe you could use an audience who can, you know, applaud?”

“No.” There’s a tremor in her voice, like someone’s pressing down on her throat. “Don’t need applause. Don’t need anything.”

“Right, right. You’re just trying to make the crustaceans feel better about their lousy life choices.” He looks down again; unsurprisingly, the molluscs seem wholly uninterested in what’s going on above them. “How’s that working out for you?”

The glare she turns on him would make Monkey proud.

“Go _away_.” And all of a sudden that lovely lilting falsetto is as sharp and pitchy as Monkey’s gravel-on-glass screech. “This is nothing to do with you.”

“I know.” He sighs. “I mean, I do. I know that. But I thought you might...”

It’s hard work, talking to someone without being able to touch them; he wants to clap a hand on her shoulder, grasp her elbow, wants to nudge her in the ribs or the back, but he knows how poorly that would go over. He’s not used to dealing with people as fragile as she is, at least on the surface, and he’s somewhat at sea on how to say all the things he wants to say with only clumsy words and awkward gestures.

She peers at him. Eyes narrowed, expression hard, but she’s not telling him to go away again.

“Might what?” she asks, in a small voice.

And there it is, the faintest trace of nervousness, of shy anticipation, of _want_. Pigsy smiles on the inside, but doesn’t let it touch his face; the last thing he wants is to scare her away now.

“Look,” he says, choosing his words carefully. “It’s sweet that you’re trying to make the aquatic wildlife a little less lonely. But they’re not your only friends any more. Understand?”

Sandy twitches, reeling like she’s been struck a terrible blow.

“Maybe not,” she says, in the ragged, broken voice of someone who doesn’t — who can’t — believe it. “But I’m _theirs_.”

“You sure about that?” He gestures again at the assembled shellfish. “Because from where I’m sitting, they seem to be having a grand old time hanging out amongst themselves.”

Understandably, that doesn’t go down well at all. No-one likes being told they’re not the life of the party they thought they were, so it’s not exactly a surprise when she bristles.

“You don’t understand,” she says, defensive and visibly upset. “You can’t hear them like I can. You can’t communicate with them, can’t speak with them. You can’t understand, you _can’t_...”

It hurts, he can tell. A lot. He tries to soften it some with a kind, sympathetic smile.

“True,” he concedes gently. “I don’t speak ‘lonely crustacean’.” This time, when he draws in his breath, it’s as much for his own sake as it is for hers. “But I do speak ‘lonely god’.”

Her whole body seems to seize for a moment, shaking like an earthquake, like it doesn’t know how to respond to something so raw and so strange.

He inches back a little, rising up onto his haunches in case she lashes out or decides she needs more space as a matter of urgency, and watches as she struggles against her instincts, against her nature.

Finally, in a ragged, breathless whisper, she says, “I don’t think you do.”

Well. She’s not completely wrong about that. Pigsy doesn’t do well with being alone; the life she’s lived, decades upon decades of isolation and loneliness, is like something out of his worst nightmares. He’s made a career of surrounding himself with enough people to ensure he never gets that way, and she’s right to call him on it. It’s been a long, long time since he had to deal with the kind of absolute solitude she’s endured for her whole life and, yeah, he’s more than a little out of practice. But that doesn’t mean he’s not willing to learn.

“Okay,” he says, as cool and easy as he dares. “So maybe I’m not _fluent_. But if you were willing to sit down and teach me a few words, maybe I could get a little better at it. And if you want... I mean, if you feel up to learning a thing or two yourself, maybe...”

He stops, studying her closely, not sure how far to push. She’s watching him back, blinking rapidly, like she has the sun in her eyes, or maybe something else. Cautious, guarded, but curious nonetheless. It’s promising.

“Maybe _what_?”

The words are thick with suspicion, feral-sounding and coarse, but it’s not an attack or a refute. He takes it.

“Maybe,” he says, flashing her a lightning-sharp grin, “I could teach you a better bloody song.”

Her eyes widen, then narrow. Not suspicion this time, but something else, like she’s trying with all her strength to understand something beyond her grasp. His heart aches for her, it really does, but he’s smart enough to keep that hidden.

“Don’t need a better one,” she says at last, soft and subdued. “Nothing wrong with the one I have. I like it. Fits well. It’s comfortable.”

Pigsy gets the feeling she’s not really talking about the song. Still, he spreads his arms, like he’s stupid enough not to read between those lines, like they really are just debating the best choice of lullaby for a cradle full of lonely fish.

“Sure,” he says, careful but not _too_ careful. “It’s a lovely little... uh, dirge. But would it kill you to try something new once in a while?”

She thinks about that for a long, long time. Long enough that he starts to wonder if he’s overstayed his welcome, or if he’s broken what little is left of her brain. He’s just about to stand up and excuse himself, take his leave while he’s still got a little bit of dignity left to salvage, when she throws out an arm to stop him.

“ _Maybe_.” Her voice is very small again, nothing at all like the way she sings, and there’s a tightness pulling at her mouth when she looks down at the gathered shellfish. “They probably won’t like it, though. They’re very particular.”

Pigsy swallows a smile. “I’m sure they are.”

“So don’t take it personally,” she says carefully, “if it doesn’t take.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Hard to say with a straight face, that, but he flatters himself that he pulls it off.

“Good.” She stands, stretching her long legs, and turns her gaze to the water. Vast and endless, as distant as the look in her eyes. “Then maybe I’ll let you try. One day.”

 _One day_.

When she’s more comfortable, she means. When she feels safe enough to seek out friends who breathe air instead of water, when the world above ground is a little less scary and a little less brutal. When she’s got herself a little closer to normal.

It’s not exactly a short-term undertaking.

Luckily, neither is their quest. From what Pigsy understands of it, the blasted thing is a whole lot of ‘one day’ and very little else.

So that works out neatly for them both.

He climbs to his feet, careful to stay out of her personal space, and flashes her a careful grin. She doesn’t return it, of course; he’s not even sure if she sees it, or would understand it if she did. But that’s okay; he was never expecting immediate reciprocity in this. It’s good enough that she’s not three leagues away already.

“One day,” he echoes, catching the rhythm of her voice. The one she uses to speak and the one she uses to sing too, the lilting rise, the jagged fall, the sharp edges and soft reflection. All of it. “Sounds like a plan.”

She still doesn’t smile. But she doesn’t move away, either, and when he reaches out a hand — tentative, careful, but with intent — she stands perfectly still and lets him clasp her shoulder.

Eyes on the sea, throat clenching in musical spasms, she says, “Okay.”

And as he traces the jutting bone with his thumb, Pigsy thinks, _You know, I think you will be_.

**


	4. Hymn

**

Lesson Three:

Tripitaka — the tiny monk with the big name — is definitely not a boy.

Possibly a monk, possibly not; that one’s tougher to say with any certainty.

Not that it matters, really, that part. Monk or not, he — _she_ — wears the robes comfortably enough that it’s academic. She knows the lifestyle, lives and breathes it as well as the truest brothers and sisters Pigsy’s ever met. Could be that she’s taken vows somewhere along the line, could just be that the Scholar raised her so well there’s no discernible difference. 

A monk in everything except the title is still a monk, more or less, at least so far as he’s concerned. Who has the time to dwell on semantics when the world’s falling apart?

In any case, she does a damn good job at pretending. Boy, monk, whichever. It’s a talent all of its own, the kind of performance that never gets a break, and Tripitaka is about the best he’s ever seen. Monkey and Sandy aren’t exactly geniuses when it comes to the way of the world — or much of anything else — but Pigsy’s wiser and more worldly than the two of them put together, even taking in Monkey’s extensive time at the Jade Mountain, and he should bloody well know better.

Not that he’s been paying close attention, mind. He’s never been one to look too closely under the robes of the holy orders — too much mess, not enough of a payout, and why even bother when there’s cleaner pickings elsewhere? — and if there’s one lesson he learned from Locke it’s that getting too cosy with the boss is always a bad idea. Why should he care what Tripitaka is or isn’t, so long as he — _she_ — knows what she’s doing?

Still, though. He’s not an idiot. Not self-obsessed like Monkey, not off in another world like Sandy. He’s a listener, a watcher, an observer. Even if he doesn’t _care_ , he’s still supposed to _know_.

It’s insulting, quite frankly.

That he never suspected a thing. That it takes a bloody _accident_ for him to figure it out...

Ah, but he’s getting ahead of himself.

Before all that, there’s the weeks of obliviousness. And for that, there’s no excuse.

No excuse for how bloody stupid he’d have to be, watching the little human sneak away to bathe or change his shirt or do whatever-the-hell-else he claims monks need to do in private. Even knowing as well as he does that it’s all nonsense. He’s hung around enough holy men and women in his time to know what they are and aren’t coy about.

But hey, Tripitaka is still young, still small. Self-conscious about his weedy little body, maybe? And who’s an oversized, overstuffed god to judge a human for being a little bit shy next to the prime example of masculinity that is the Monkey King?

Could have used a little more of that shyness himself, to tell the truth of it.

Anyway. Oblivious. Weeks. Should’ve known better, but didn’t.

And then, the accident.

*

It’s nothing life-threatening.

Hell, it’s not even particularly serious. Even for a weak, fragile little human.

It doesn’t take a closer inspection to see that it’s no big deal. If it had happened to one of them instead, it likely wouldn’t have even left a mark. Gods’ skin is tough as steel when it wants to be, but human skin is like bloody parchment. Old parchment. Old, badly decayed parchment. A light bloody breeze could crack the skin across Tripitaka’s knuckles, if it took a fancy to the idea. Not that it often does, thankfully.

Today, apparently, it does.

They’re halfway up a mountain when it happens. Too high up to go back, but still a long way left to go. It’s that awkward in-between point of a journey that has all of them on edge, albeit each for their own reasons.

Monkey is sulking, as per usual. He tried to summon his cloud maybe half a dozen times before they began the ascent, bragging endlessly about how much easier it would make the journey, but despite all his best efforts the blasted thing still won’t listen to him. Pigsy can’t really blame it for that, to be honest; given the choice, he’d be a few hundred leagues away from here too, and well out of earshot of Monkey’s whining.

Sandy, being less prone to complaining but more prone to melancholy, keeps stopping to peer mournfully over the edge of the nearest sheer cliff face. The discomfort is understandable, Pigsy supposes — he’s not a big fan of heights either — but he could frankly do without the way she keeps asking how long it would take to hit the ground if they fell.

After the third time, even Tripitaka looks like he wants to yell at her to shut up. It’s a tribute to his patience, monastic or otherwise, that he just sighs, shakes his head, and says, “Try not to think about it.”

For his part, Pigsy has spent a great deal of time trying exactly that. It’d be easy to assume that all the time he spent at the top of Locke’s palace would have prepared him for the far too literal high-life he finds himself living now, but alas it has not. He’s dizzy and light-headed on top of his usual exhaustion, and he’s not quite sure what makes him more miserable: Sandy’s morbid musings or Monkey whining about his stupid bloody cloud.

He’s really, _really_ trying to remember why he signed up for this.

Luckily — or not-so-luckily, as it goes — he has an accident-prone maybe-monk just waiting for a chance to provide a much-needed distraction.

It happens without warning, like so many (un)lucky things seem to do.

One moment Pigsy is glaring daggers at Monkey and telling him exactly what he’ll do with his bloody cloud if he mentions it one more time, and the next Sandy is stumbling backwards, crashing into his back and mumbling with a feverish sort of urgency, “I didn’t mean for you to test it _literally_ , Tripitaka...”

Pigsy spins on his heels.

And... well.

Honestly, at this point in the journey, he’s not even remotely surprised to find Tripitaka dangling from the cliff face by his fingernails.

Apparently, he’s so used to this sort of thing by now that it doesn’t even register as an emergency, because instead of heart-stopping panic and abject horror, all he manages to say is, “... _How_?”

Some days, he thinks, it just doesn’t pay to get out of bed.

“Can we discuss the technicalities later?” Tripitaka squeaks, sounding more like a strangled chipmunk than the serene hope of mankind he’s supposed to be. “Maybe after you’ve helped me back up?”

Right. Good idea, that. Pigsy isn’t particularly enthused by the idea of getting up close and personal with the sheer edge of a cliff, but Monkey’s already reaching for his staff and he’s even less enthused by the idea of having to waste time explaining why shoving it in the poor monk’s face and shouting “grab on!” probably isn’t the wisest course of action.

“What’s he going to grab with?” he snaps, shouldering Monkey out of the way before he can get that far. “The power of positive thinking?”

Monkey huffs at that, but wisely stays out of the way. It’s no secret that Pigsy is the heavy lifter of their little band, even if he likes to make noise about how unfair it is. The others have their talents — Monkey could outmatch anyone in a fistfight without breaking a sweat and Sandy could probably outrun the bloody wind if she set her mind to it — but neither of them have the raw physicality that he does, and they both know it.

Must do, because for once they’re both smart enough to back up and stay the hell out of his way.

Clenching his teeth against the vertigo, Pigsy hauls his upper half over the edge. Tripitaka’s already slipping, a smear of dark blood marking his descent down the jagged, jutting stones. It’ll be a mess and a half to clean up, Pigsy muses, and lets the mundanity of that thought centre him as he reaches down and _down_.

It’s not the closest call they’ve ever had, but tell that to his thundering heart. His own hands are slipping too now, slick with sweat and lacking purchase, so when he catches a fistful of blue fabric between his shaking, straining fingers, it’s definitely more by luck than judgement.

Not that he’ll admit that to the others, mind. At least, not while they’re cheering and congratulating him.

The crisis is over in a flash — has to be, in truth; any longer than that, and they’d be peeling a Tripitaka-shaped pancake off the rock face — but the panic and horror of another near-miss last a fair while longer, even after everyone is safe and sound and back on mostly-solid ground.

Well. Safe, anyway, and solid. As for sound...

“You’re _bleeding_!”

That’s Monkey, of course, never one to pass up a chance to be dramatic. Eyes rolling and jaw tight, one would think to look at him that Tripitaka had left half his torso dangling off the cliff.

He’s more angry than upset, Pigsy can tell, the way he always gets when something has happened that he couldn’t stop or control, but that doesn’t make the reaction any less overblown. Still, he can be forgiven; it’s not the damage itself that bothers him, but the fact that it happened in spite of him, the fact that there was nothing he could do to stop it.

That sharp-toothed monster, helplessness, rearing its head again. Pigsy understands it well enough by now that he doesn’t bother calling Monkey on his histrionics.

Tripitaka, being the subject of his outburst, is not quite so forgiving. He squirms like a kid caught doing something he shouldn’t be and tries to hide the damage by hiding his little fists behind his back. Not fast enough, of course, but points for trying.

It’s nothing serious, really, but his palms have seen better days. They’re both grazed and scraped almost raw; it’ll hurt like hell for a couple of days at the least, though Pigsy keeps that part to himself.

“It’s nothing!” Tripitaka is snapping at Monkey, flushing furiously. “It’s fine. I’m good.”

“That’s not _nothing_ ,” Monkey rants, characteristically unable to read the room. “You need to be more careful! What if we’re not there to catch you next time?”

Sensing a meltdown in progress, on both sides, Pigsy sighs and takes charge. Again.

It’s not something he particularly enjoys, being the one to call the shots and boss everyone else around, but it’s the sad side-effect of being on a never-ending quest with three of the least worldly people he’s ever met. A god raised to believe he could bend the whole bloody world to his whim, a half-god-half-fish raised underground, and a human raised in a monastery with his head in a book. Between the three of them, on a good day, there’s just enough common sense to cover a small slice of toast.

So that part — the common-sense part — falls, once again, on him. It’s not the most flattering colour, but he’ll wear it as well as any other.

“All right,” he says, stooping to rummage through their things. “Tripitaka, sit down over there and try to keep still. This place is treacherous enough without blood all over the ground.”

Tripitaka does as he’s told, obedient but sullen. Fair enough; he can pout and gripe all he likes, insisting for Monkey’s sake that he’s fine, that his hands don’t even hurt, blithely denying all the evidence to the contrary. Let him live out his delusions of toughness, if that’s what he wants; so long as he does what he’s told, Pigsy doesn’t care.

Moving on, he empties their waterskins into a small bowl, then tosses the remains at Sandy. “You, go fill these back up. And you—” He turns, levelling Monkey with a pointed stay-out-of-the-way look. “Make yourself useful: go and stand watch.”

He’s not happy about it, but he’s also not inclined to be the only one kicking up a fuss when the others seem content to obey. Even he has limits, it seems, to what he’ll whine about. Good to know.

“Fine,” he grumbles, stalking away. “But he’d better still be in one piece when I get back, or _you’ll_ be going over the edge.”

Pigsy rolls his eyes. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Unburdened of distractions, he sets to work soaking a cloth. Tripitaka, still sitting quietly as instructed, watches with furrowed brow, expression somewhere between annoyance and humiliation.

“It’s really not a big deal,” he says again. “I’ve grazed my hands before, dozens of times. You don’t need to coddle me just because I’m human.”

Pigsy snorts his amusement. “Trust me,” he says. “This is _not_ coddling.” He means that with absolute sincerity; he’s tended enough wounds of this sort over the centuries to know what’s coming. “Seriously. You might want to save your breath. Oh, and bite down on something.”

Tripitaka glowers, not taking him the least bit seriously. No surprises there. Shrugging, Pigsy shoots him a don’t-say-I-didn’t-warn-you look, and promptly presses the damp cloth to the gashed skin on his right hand.

Naturally, the been-there-done-that smugness disappears in a lightning-strike of pain, and Tripitaka lets out an anguished howl.

Pigsy, enjoying this far more than he’d ever admit, says, “Told you.”

Tripitaka, gulping air, shoots him a dagger-sharp glare. “This is pointless,” he pants. “It’s just a little graze.”

True enough, though Pigsy would use rather less of the ‘little’. Still, he concedes with a shrug.

“Graze or not,” he says, “we’re halfway up a blasted mountain, and a hundred leagues from the nearest healer. I’m not taking any chances on infection in the middle of nowhere. So take another deep breath and think of something cheerful to distract yourself while I finish the job. Because I promise you, it’s not going to get any more fun.”

Tripitaka sucks in his breath. He’s still not happy about it, but he can’t deny it’s a good point. Besides which, they both know he’d be the first to insist on exactly this sort of precaution if their situations were reversed. So even if he were inclined to argue, assuming he could find the breath for it, he wouldn’t have a leg to stand on.

“Fine.” He sounds like Monkey, sullen and scowling and utterly insufferable. “Something cheerful. Halfway up a mountain, with you torturing me. No problem.”

Really, it’s like he’s _trying_ to make this harder. Like he wants to make Pigsy as miserable as he is. It’s not going to work, of course — Pigsy has more than his fair share of experience by now in dealing with exactly this kind of stubborn wilfulness — but it’s a noble attempt nonetheless. Points for effort, if not for style.

“Tell me a story,” he suggests, reaching once more for the cloth. “Or sing me a song. You’re a monk, I bet you know plenty.”

Tripitaka stares at him for a second, like he’s just said something utterly ridiculous. Then, out of nowhere, his whole face seems to soften; he still yelps like an overgrown baby when Pigsy takes another swipe with the cloth, but he’s got an oddly nostalgic look on his face now. Pigsy knows that look well, the haunting echo of another time. A happier one, most likely. His heart softens too, catching the rhythm of the monk’s breath.

“The Scholar,” Tripitaka rasps, when he’s able to speak again. “He’d always tell me to do that when I scraped my knees. Sing to him, concentrate on the rhythm, the harmony, the words...”

He trails off, shaking his head. Pigsy wrings out the cloth again, and musters a smile.

“A smart monk,” he says, as gently as he can manage in a moment of such pain. Then, clearing his throat as he readies himself to start again, “Well, go on, then.”

It surprises him, probably more than it should, that he actually does.

It’s a typically monastic song, a stodgy old hymn that’s probably even older than Pigsy himself. A whole lot of holier-than-thou blah-blah-blah about faith and endurance and defying the odds even when they seem insurmountable. A damned predictable choice, really, for a too-small human on a too-big quest, sat halfway up a mountain with blood on his hands.

The song isn’t what gets Pigsy’s attention, though. It’s the _voice_ that grabs him, takes him by the collar and shakes him up, until the world twists and bends into something new, something unfathomable.

He’s not surprised that the little human sings well. Spend enough time in a monastery, eventually you learn to carry a tune. Learn to hold your faith in your heart, learn to reshape and refract it, learn to pour it out through your voice; from his experience, there are few in the world who sing as beautifully as monks.

Of course he’d sing well, with faith in his heart. Even Monkey would, if only he could find some.

But Tripitaka’s voice isn’t just good. It’s sweet and it’s high, it’s soft and beautiful, and it—

It definitely, _definitely_ doesn’t belong to a boy.

Pigsy’s not that much of an idiot. He can tell the bloody difference.

A boy with a high, sweet voice, that’s not so unusual; he’s met and heard plenty of those in his day. Plenty of young girls, too, belting out deep booming altos. Even spent some time, way back when, with a chorus who pitched themselves as something in between; what a sound that was, the most dazzling blend of voices he ever heard in his life, feminine-masculine and masculine-feminine and utterly breathtaking. He’s heard just about every mix of gender and tone the world has to offer, every combination under the sun.

And he knows a girl when he hears one.

It takes a lot to swallow his surprise, to not let the reaction show. Luckily, he’s only halfway through his task; a useful distraction, and a necessary one.

He takes a breath, forces down his reflexes, and focuses on what he’s doing. Head bowed low over the little bowl, watching the water turning pink as he rinses the cloth over and over again. Eyes locked on Tripitaka’s hands — so slender, so delicate... how did he never notice? — as he cleans the scrapes and grazes, finds the places where the skin is torn and ripped, tries to keep the pain as minimal as he can. And all the while Tripitaka, biting her lip to keep from yelping, sings that silly hymn.

Pigsy has never been especially good at subtlety — never had to be before now — but he does the best he can. 

Passable enough, at least, that Tripitaka doesn’t notice the stricken look on his face. For once, he’s grateful for the pain twisting hers, the desperate focus as she tries to keep her attention on the words, the melody, the emotion of what she’s singing. An effective distraction for them both, and probably the only reason she doesn’t notice the way he’s suddenly gone pale and quiet.

It takes him a moment to find his voice once it’s over. He has to lean back, eyes shut, and listen to hers as it fades out, has to ground himself in the silence that follows before he can catch his breath and remember who she’s supposed to be.

He counts to ten, shoves the bowl of pink-red water away, and croaks, “You’re done.”

Tripitaka exhales a shaky sigh of relief. No mistaking it now: high and feminine, a girl even when she’s just breathing. He can’t fathom how he never noticed it before.

“See,” she manages, all weak smiles and tremulous laughter. “Told you it’s not a big deal.”

Pigsy swallows hard, tries to breathe.

“Right,” he says. “No big deal at all.”

And boy, does he wish that it was true.

*

He keeps the truth to himself, of course.

Well, he wouldn’t be much of a follower if he didn’t.

Wouldn’t have survived as well as he has, either.

Living under the thumb of a demon for as long as he lived with Locke... well, it taught him a thing or two about keeping his mouth — and his eyes — shut tight.

That’s the thing about being a listener: sometimes you listen because you’re not allowed to look. Because a stray glance might give you away. Worse, because it might give someone else away.

Doing what he did, he learned the value of turning a blind eye, of pretending not to see the things that might pique attention from unwanted places. There wasn’t much he could do for his fellow gods, not with Locke watching his every move like a bloody hawk, but he got pretty damn good at pretending he didn’t see things.

Even obvious things.

 _Especially_ obvious things.

And this...

Well. Now that he knows the truth, this is _really_ obvious.

All the more reason not to see.

Besides, it’s not his place to call her on it. It’s not his place to do anything at all, just follow along like the loyal little lackey he’s always been, playing the same role he’s fit into for as long as he can remember. Tripitaka is a kinder, gentler sort of boss than he’s accustomed to, but she’s a boss just the same, and just like he did with Locke he’ll sit back like a good boy and let her do what she wants.

He doesn’t know Tripitaka’s story, but he knows he trusts her a damn sight more than he ever trusted Locke. There’s a thousand possible reasons for this kind of deception — some preferential, others downright life-threatening — and in any case he’s always been the kind of god to judge by action first. Tripitaka’s actions, such as they are, speak for themselves. As someone who has spent far too much of his life following the kinds of people who don’t deserve it, he doesn’t need to know more than what he’s already learned to know that she does.

Maybe she thinks she needs the robes, the name, the identity. Maybe she thinks that’s the only way to get others to respect her. Hell, maybe she just thinks it’s the only way to get _Monkey_ to respect her. She could hardly be blamed for feeling that way, if she does; it’s no secret that he’s the reason they’re there in the first place, and no secret either that his moods are as fickle as the weather. He’s barely sticking it out as it is; small wonder if the poor human thinks the truth would send him running.

Pigsy knows better. Just as he knows Tripitaka is a human worth putting his faith in, he has a pretty good idea about Monkey too. The smug little smartass might be fickle, but he’s not an idiot.

Well. Maybe a _bit_ of an idiot.

He is, after all, still oblivious.

Tripitaka’s not especially subtle, and she’s definitely not talented. Now that Pigsy knows what he’s looking at, it’s right there on every line of her face, every step, every bloody breath she takes: the girl positively radiates femininity.

He’s even caught Sandy looking at her sideways once or twice, brow furrowed like she’s trying to calculate some unfathomably complex equation. She never quite gets there, but she’s clearly having thoughts. And she’s the one he _would_ peg as an idiot. Innocent, at least, in the ways of the world, and with enough holes in her head that it’s understandable if a thought doesn’t stick around long enough to reach its conclusion.

She gets halfway there sometimes, he’s sure of it, but never more than that. Though, in her defence, he’s pretty sure she’s never made it more than halfway to anything, so by her standards it’s a pretty solid win.

Point is, she’s at least picking up the hints Tripitaka is dropping all over the place. But Monkey... 

Monkey is _not_.

Funny, Pigsy thinks, how the biggest braggarts are always the last to figure out the things that really bloody matter.

And, okay, so maybe Pigsy should give him a little nudge in the right direction. Not say anything outright, of course, just drop a few hints every now and then and hope he connects the dots himself. A heads-up, so to speak, so that when the truth eventually comes out — and it will, he has no doubt of that — the poor fool isn’t thrown into a maelstrom of confusion and betrayal.

Because, yeah, Monkey is definitely arrogant enough to think it’s personal. Pride can wreak all sorts of havoc when it’s twisted into humiliation, and Monkey’s pride is just about the most volatile thing Pigsy’s ever seen. If he thinks he’s been made a fool... worse, if he thinks Tripitaka did it on _purpose_...

It’s not a fun thought.

So, yeah, he probably should say something. For everyone’s sake.

But he doesn’t.

Funny thing about being a follower: it breeds loyalty. Real loyalty, true and pure. The kind of fierce, violent devotion he sees sometimes in Sandy’s eyes, the only emotion powerful enough to chase away the loneliness. Tripitaka incites those feelings in others without even realising it, and somewhere along the line Pigsy finds that he’s fallen for it too. The idea of going behind her back with this, even just to drop a hint to a monkey-brained buffoon?

Nope. Not going to happen.

Her privacy, he decides, is worth a damn sight more than Monkey’s fragile little ego.

Who’d’ve guessed?

Besides, more importantly, he has faith.

Not much — certainly not as much as a monk, even one who might be faking certain other things — but enough to make a damn good start.

Faith in Tripitaka, of course, to reveal the truth when the moment is right. But faith in Monkey too, against his better judgement, to step up and see that there are more important things than his ego. A shock like this might not be much fun for anyone within a hundred leagues, but Pigsy has to believe it won’t be the end for him, or for them. He’s spent enough time with them both — Tripitaka, who draws people into her orbit, and Monkey, who cares so much more than he’ll ever admit — that he has to believe that.

Has to. No other choice, if he wants to stay on this wretched path.

He might be a sentimental old fool, but he’s not nearly so sentimental or so foolish as to stick his head in the noose without a bloody good reason.

He has to believe it’ll come out right in the end. Has to believe Tripitaka’s reasons for hiding herself are as pure and true as the rest of her has proven to be. Has to believe that Monkey is more than the arrogance, more than the self-righteous swagger, more than all the stupid things that mean so much to him. Has to believe that somewhere underneath all that ego is a heart that’s just as big as the rest of him.

Has to believe in himself a little bit too, maybe. Has to believe he has a place among this motley band of tuneless misfits, believe he has something to offer, something that’s all his own.

He’ll never have Monkey’s power, his status, or his ego. He’ll probably never have Sandy’s soft soulfulness, her quiet devotion to things that no-one else can see. He’ll _definitely_ never have Tripitaka’s diligence and dedication, her willingness to give up everything she is to a cause that means so much to her.

Even if he lives another thousand years, another ten thousand, he’ll never have those things.

And that’s okay. Yeah. Because he doesn’t really want them anyway.

So, then, what does he have?

A little bit of cock-eyed optimism, a pair of big broad shoulders with a whole lot of strength behind them, and a half-decent baritone.

It’s not much. Compared to the rest of them, it’s barely anything at all. But it has seen him through the worst of his life, got him through it mostly unscathed, and he has to believe it’ll see him through the rest as well.

And maybe, if he’s lucky, it’ll help him to teach this motley band of tuneless misfits a thing or two about harmony.

***


End file.
